Dangerous Disadvantage
by Elianara
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is needed back in London but he's been dead and gone too long and he's losing himself. Irene may be the one person who knows what that's like.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N : I am assuming for the purposes of this that the fall was in early winter. The M rating will be needed (for a couple of reasons) in later chapters. _**

_Dull._

Boring and pedestrian and so dull.

Everything was buffed into inoffensive sameness in these places so everything was alien. Barcelona could just as well be Brussels, Prague.

Sherlock's seat at the bar offered him a perfect view of his fellow hotel guests as they drifted from the golden early evening sunshine of the street into the lobby but he had found there was little entertainment to be had in deducing the patrons of these corporate chain hotels. It didn't matter what city, what country, sordid affairs and financial woes. Sex and money and in such a narrow predictable way. He sipped more of the Scotch in front of him,the burn fading to numbness as the minutes wore on.

He had expected, even hoped, this would be difficult and dangerous. Difficult and dangerous was what kept him out of trouble. Undoing all the carefully constructed intricacies of the consulting criminals network, that was what would save him from himself. What he hadn't expected, hadn't, couldn't have planned for were those nights when he was stuck in a strange room in a strange city with nothing to actively do or think. No violin, no lab equipment, no John Watson coming in to tell him it was three in the morning and would he mind _giving it a sodding rest_. The nights were when he felt he needed something to blunt his brain.

He could feel the small bag in his pocket like dead weight, he didn't dare leave it in his room. The twisted scar, still an angry red, on his shoulder was well past the point of giving him the excuse of needing pain relief. The rest of him however, longed for the switch-off, the brief absence he knew chemicals could provide.

Finding drugs in a major city was never going to be a problem. There was always someone with the signs, the furtiveness as much as anything. When he'd saw the waitress that morning at breakfast he'd known. An hour and a short cab ride later he was standing beside her in the kitchen of a nondescript modern flat while a middle aged woman exchanged his wad of euros for the small bag. He could, he was, resisting it for now but he knew it couldn't last-not here.

The touch to his wrist was so faint it could have been a memory, tracing an older scar, thin and white. The result of a glancing blow with a blade meant for someone else. A wound he'd never properly explained to John, who's suspicions were understandably aroused after an eight day absence.

'I think you still owe me dinner.' She said as he stood and turned, pleasantly unbalanced for a second, suddenly not bored.

He had a few moments to take her in as she coolly turned away to thank the barman for the glass of white wine placed in front of her. He noted the short peroxide hair and the tan, her hands and the way she shifted slightly from foot to foot. Her arms were then suddenly around his neck, hips pressing none too subtly against him. He reacted slowly and with too much thought as one hand came up to rest on her waist.

'I don't know about the beard. ' She whispered, lips brushing the growth on his face. 'What a shame your curls had to go.' One hand ran almost maternally through his short hair.

'Come and sit down Irene, people are watching.' He returned her whisper, fingertips pressing into the small of her back as he firmly guided her to a corner table.

'Go on then deduce me.' She said quietly, crossing her legs. A challenge.

He sipped a quantity of his drink, his eyes dragging over her, a delaying tactic. He knew everything he needed to already and when he started to speak his words ran together. There was something in Irene that made him eager for praise, he hated it without understanding it or even trying to.

'You've been staying here in Spain, one of the resorts on the coast probably. You can blend in there, big turnover of tourists, lots of expats. You're working in a bar , hands look a little rough, some traces of contact dermatitis so you use cleaning agents a lot. I see you're wearing heels tonight-I assume for my benefit-but you don't wear them much these days. Your gait is slightly awkward. Flat shoes are much more suited to long periods on you feet.' He paused for breath and she allowed the smallest upturn of her mouth before he continued.

'Probably somewhere middle of the road, anywhere too high end and you could bump into a former client, too many young people and you run more risk of your face ending up on YouTube or Facebook by accident. The bar work suits because it's casual, cash in hand, ideal to stay below the radar. Whatever ID you're using you don't quite have faith in because you want to stay off grid as far as possible.' He finished and sat back.

'Very good, felt good did it?' The question was left unanswered as she leaned over to her bag and brought out a folded sheet of newspaper, sliding it across the table.

' Some sort of anniversary memorial service organised by Scotland Yard.' She looked suddenly serious.

It was a British tabloid, five weeks old.

The photo centred on a blonde actress, a one-time client, but in the margins he could see John. The combination of a moustache and black suit aging him terribly.

The doctor appeared to be supported, almost physically, by a blonde woman who clutched possessively at his arm.

'Who's she?' The distaste in his voice surprised him.

' Mary Morstan. She's a nurse, works with him.' Irene paused.

'I know her from somewhere else- by another name.'

'From another previous life.' He broke in casually, fingers tapping pensively on the sheet of newspaper.

'You always knew- obviously.' She laughed slightly and shook her head.

'Booby trapping a safe and a mobile phone, putting a thirteen stone marine on the floor, faking your own death? Hardly necessary skills for a dominatrix.'

'You'd be surprised at the crossover.' She sipped her wine.

'How did you two meet?' He slid the paper back towards her.

' We didn't. I worked for the Americans, arms length obviously. There was an incident at a party I attended on their behalf. Lots of men with money that can't be explained. A bodyguard got shot while his employer stood behind him. It was a warning. One he didn't heed. Two days later I heard he'd died in a botched robbery at his warehouse.'

'She killed him?' Sherlock swallowed the last of his drink, crunching an ice cube.

'Think so. The Americans called me in to show me CCTV, asked if I'd seen her. She was on camera going in the front door but no one saw her after that, not at the party, not leaving. She was a brunette then too.'

'You've not seen her since?'

'No, but she was known to my employers who were obviously rattled when she turned up. '

' The bodyguard was a warning?'Irene nodded.

'What happened to your mark?'

'He fared better, sort of, he's doing ten years in a supermax in California now. Arms dealing. My American employers were a little more by the book than hers.

They were both silent for a few seconds as a waiter cleared the table behind them.

'The question now is what does she want with John? She must be good. I can't see an ex-military man like him being easily taken in. He always struck me as being...steady.' She said, folding the paper and tucking it in her bag.

Sherlock half smiled. ' You know people think John is all tea and cardigans but he loves-needs-the danger. He doesn't know it of course but that's...'

'The turn on?..Jealous?' She said, smirking.

The detective sighed suddenly, unusually, tired. ' Of course, he's probably been, well, lonely.'

'Sentiment Sherlock?' She raised her eyebrows. 'Come upstairs. I have something else to show you.' She stood and squeezed one tense shoulder.

He followed her mechanically, the new information refusing to settle and process in his brain.

Irene' s room was identical to his, aggressively tasteful beige. He noticed she shed the heels with relief as soon as she got in the door.

'Sit.' She patted the bed. before quickly going to her suitcase which rested on the floor below the window.

She climbed onto the bed beside him and handed him a few blown up photographs, obviously documents snapped quickly, most likely with a camera phone.

' These may be useful to your brother's people. Shipping documents of some sort. Relates to the north African end. I assume that's what you're currently working on.'

'Where did they come from?'

'Moriarty' s top man in Marrakech. Jim himself asked me to show him a good time when he was in London. Though I grant you it wouldn't have been everyone's idea of a good time.' Her voice dipped suggestively and she shifted on the bed. One hand coming to rest on his shoulder. He turned towards her, realising his error in a split second but still too late, as the needle plunged into his other arm.

He made to get up but she quickly drew herself round to straddle his lap, pushing his chest with surprising strength and forcing him onto his back. His limbs were already starting to feel like they were trying to move through treacle.

'Don't fight it Mr Holmes, it's been a while since I've tied a grown man to a bed but you never really lose the knack.' She held his wrists firm for a few seconds, pressing a kiss to his forehead as consciousness slipped away.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N This one nearly got abandoned through a combination of real life and a crisis of confidence about the planned story. However, after a bit of a do-over plot wise and a thorough rewatch of both A Scandal in Belgravia and The Reichenbach Fall (not really a hardship) I think I'm back on track. Thanks for reading._

Consciousness bled in from the edges with the low drone and vibration, each breath dry and stale.

A plane. A plane via a hospital. He vaguely remembered the sterile tang in his nose and the sensation of latex gloves and cold metal on his bare skin. He became aware of the scent of new carpet and leather, fresh coffee and something else familiar, woody and old fashioned. A nice plane, a private plane. The sort of plane that... _oh._

'We can tell you're awake Sherlock.'

As he opened his eyes, his brother sat opposite with a thick file propped in his lap. The top edge decorated with a confetti of index flags. The older Holmes looked exhausted, fraying, and it took a lot to exhaust Mycroft. In the right company he would boast of not sleeping for three days during an American state visit.

'Was this really necessary?' Sherlock shifted, trying to regain feeling in his stiff limbs.

'Of course. No one wants a repeat of March 2008.'

Sherlock had the good grace to blush, 2008 had been his last proper bender. Cocaine and God knows what else. He'd outwitted his brother across London for three days, sending a series of taunting and increasingly incoherent texts. The whole thing ended with a well placed drugs raid, Sherlock bundled into an unmarked car while the Met's best looked the other way.

It would be months before he realised how much Mycroft, and Lestrade for that matter, had risked. Sending government resources to retrieve a junkie relation from a drug den being the stuff tabloid scandals are made of.

'Look brother we don't have time to bugger about. I'm going to assume you haven't touched what I found in your pocket. I don't like to be proved wrong.' Mycroft didn't swear as a rule. He thought it a sign of poor vocabulary.

'It's time you came back anyway. I can get anyone to deal with Marrakech and Spain.' Mycroft dismissed a people and antiquities smuggling ring with an impatient gesture. 'This woman is a different matter.'

'You've not been watching John, not properly.' Something unpleasant and icy slipped across his skin at the realisation.

'Sherlock, there is only so much time, this happened rather suddenly and...' Mycroft broke off to rub his temple, he was a martyr to migraines.

'He's happy Sherlock. For a long time the biggest danger to John was John and I was grateful he was happy. I made an error of judgement and for that I'm sorry.' A look passed between them. The Holmes brothers didn't really do sincerity. Mostly they communicated via sarcasm and sniping.

'You went down a lot easier than last time.' Irene broke in. His head snapped round to where she sat. Coffee in one hand, newspaper (The Guardian) in the other. Out of the showy clothes of her previous occupation she looked smaller, slight even, but with a certain wiry strength.

The plane shifted around them as it prepared for landing. Sherlock looked out of the window for the first time. He was surprised to see an expanse of muted brownish green and a body of water, coastline in the distance.

'I thought you were taking me home.' He turned to his brother.

'As I'm sure you appreciate 'home' is a little more complicated for you. The Lodge seemed the most sensible solution until I can arrange things.'

'Sutherland? How long?'

'A week at most. Then I should be in a position to do something more permanent for both of you.'

Realisation dawned. 'She's staying with me?'

'I'm sure it's all very proper Sherlock, separate rooms to avoid a scandal.' Irene was smirking, they both ignored her.

'Of course. I can't be expected to find two safe houses at this short notice. Besides, recent history suggests you are rather good at looking after each other.'

###########

_Karachi -3 years earlier_

A lot of people owed Sherlock favours and Irene knew what a lot of people liked.

This made the practicalities of safe (if illegal) passage out of Pakistan and a secure place to stay until this could be arranged manageable if not easy. A few phone calls, the furtive collection of keys from a run-down shop and they were making their way up a narrow winding staircase and through a reassuringly heavy door. There wasn't much to it, a( thankfully clean) sparse space, a small bathroom. Not what The Woman was used to of course but the sigh of relief as she leaned against the locked door was the most human reaction he'd ever seen from her. But then what did he know about that?

They hadn't said much as they ran from the abandoned warehouse and drove away in a stolen car. They had worked their way back into the heart of the city on foot, picking up supplies as they came across them. It was only now as they sat down facing each other in the tiny stuffy room, showered and fed as well as the meagre accommodation allowed that she asked.

'Why did you come after me?' It sounded like an accusation.

'I was curious about where you'd go, if you'd throw yourself on his mercy. When I realised you weren't going to Moriarty I was even more curious.' He flexed the fingers of his injured hand and set about bandaging it.

'Professional interest.' She said, with a disbelieving raise of the eyebrows.

'Of course what else.'. He had been lucky, it was minor but a slight change in angle, a few seconds either way and he could have lost the hand. 'Very few people get close to besting Mycroft.' He added by way of further explanation.

'I still don't entirely understand how you found me so quickly .' He sighed as if he found the whole subject boring.

'I had your client list from the phone of course. Then it was just a question of narrowing it down. I discarded any name you had less than five appointments with in the last year. The connection would be too tenuous and, much worse, they were likely to be too poor to be of any use to you. That got rid of half. Then there was the government officials and elected representatives.' He smirked slightly at this.

'After what had passed you would know they would be under extra scrutiny from Mycroft, not worth the risk. That left me with twenty-five names. Most of whom were too famous to be of any use. Sports people, royalty, actors, musicians.'

'You knew who they all were?' She looked incredulous, pop culture was not his area.

'I looked everyone up.' He replied deadpan before continuing. 'Once I'd got to that stage one name stood out. Close enough to the royal family of the gulf state he came from to be almost comically wealthy but peripheral enough to operate under the radar.' She had come to sit beside him and had taken over the forgotten bandaging.

'I assume you didn't plan to stay there for too long. Six months perhaps. Repaying him in some sort of _kind_ I assume.' She stopped the bandaging and looked up sharply.

'I don't judge, you did what you had to. There's always something though isnt there? You couldn't have known about the staff member who'd been radicalised. Who was offended by your presence.' He looked at her, her fingers still resting on his wrist, even though the bandage was finished.

'You're almost right. It was his cousin, the one who turned me over to them.'

'Like I say always something.' He tailed off.

'Thank you Mr Holmes.' She said kneeling beside him, serious, submissive. 'I didn't deserve rescuing, I made a fool of you.'

'Please, we both know that's precisely why I did come for you, anyway..' He regarded her for a few beats. 'Humble does not suit you.'

'Professional interest.' She repeated. 'You know I have professional interests too.' She turned his hand in hers, firmly stroking along the palm and pads of his fingers, up to the bones of his wrist. Testing reactions to pressure, tension.

'We both know I have no interest in any of that.' His words were dismissive but his tone wavered and he didn't pull his hand away. She smiled and pressed two fingers to his pulse point.

'I think you might, even if only in the interest of scientific enquiry.' She lifted his hand to her face and held it gently against her cheek. His thumb moved to brush across her mouth.

_Just an experiment._

He felt his tongue move across his own lips in counterpoint and he sensed more than saw her shift subtly toward him before the phone buzzed shrilly on the table behind them. The complete shattering of the fragile moment loud in the airless room.

The next three days passed in a blur, he had the significant parts stored away in his mind palace of course, but they would remain untidy like the first draft of an unfinished essay. The nerve-wracking collection of fake passports from a group as dangerous as the one they had escaped from, the rising panic with every extra glance or gesture they received at each border crossing and finally their parting. Irene disappearing into the crowd with barely a backward glance at an Istanbul market.

It would only be back at Baker Street in his own chair, after he had regaled John with the fabricated account of a German aristocrat's stolen jewellery and his flatmate had gone to bed that he thought of it again. The warmth and promise of comfort in her gestures, the feeling that, they were something he could, one day,reciprocate.

_Thanks for reading. A note on timelines- I'm assuming that the course of S2 plays out across a year after the last time he sees Irene._


	3. Chapter 3

After his brief lucid spell the little memory he had of the drive to the lodge had a dreamlike quality.

Anthea had appeared in a nondescript saloon car and acted as chauffeur. Mycroft, pleading work pressures, had left again in the plane. Taxiing for take off before they even left the deserted airfield. He vaguely recalled empty acres of muted green and the two women awkwardly making conversation, something that would have riled him in it's pointlessness under other circumstances.

The sedative dragged him under again as Anthea left him alone in his room. In his mind the present had mixed with memories of the last time Irene drugged him and it was as if both John and Irene( wearing his coat and nothing else) had taken turns in a vigil at his bedside while the chemicals made their way out of his system.

In reality, when he woke, he was alone in the attic room. Pleasant enough, all dove grey and tasteful tartan. He'd been here before. After the infamous 'March 2008'. His brother, unwilling to put their parents through another detox, had checked him into a ruinously expensive clinic north of Glasgow. After he gone through the all too familiar routines of getting clean Mycroft had brought him here, as far from civilization as he could manage. Keeping him under virtual house arrest for a further month. Sherlock remembered him euphemistically calling it a sabbatical.

When he got up and went downstairs through the chilly house Irene' s door was still shut. He drank strong, sweet tea at an open window in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain before showering.

The soap and shampoo were his (expensive) brands of habit from Baker Street. His brother or , more likely, Anthea had done their homework. He supposed it was meant as a kindly welcome home gesture but the familiar scents made him feel homesick in a way he hadn't allowed himself since the night he silently wept on the frigid deck of a Rotterdam ferry. His newly shaved scalp itching under a woollen hat as he watched the lights of Hull disappear into the distance.

He towelled off and dressed from a selection of new clothes that had been left in carrier bags in his room. Outdoor stuff, fleece and pockets, ugly but functional.

He made more tea and carried it to the living room along with the file Mycroft had given him and a packet of biscuits. He knew he'd need sensible food eventually but for now he was more curious about the file, about Mary Morstan.

He flipped straight to the back. The most recent pictures of John and Mary. Romantic relationships, not his area. They looked happy, it was true, but John was also watchful. Very probably he knew that he was being observed and resented the intrusion of his old life into his new one.

He went back to the start, copies from another file. Eastern Europe in the mid eighties. The military of several countries run schools for orphans with promise. When the wall came down some of the mentors kept their charges on during the period of adjustment, whether for financial gain or out of sentiment isn't clear. At some point they are put to work. A pattern emerges by the late nineties of an excellent sniper able to pass through high level security with ease. Skills that are needed by both sides, skills that are for sale to the highest bidder.

When he looks up his tea is cold and Irene is sitting opposite,cup in hand, just watching. Her hair shower damp.

'So what now?'

'You seem to know as well as me.' He replied sharply, his brain still too sluggish to come up with anything else.

'Breakfast then. Ive been told you've to eat - properly.' She looked pointedly at the packet of digestives.

'Fine.' He got up and stretched, ignoring the way she ran her eyes over him. Exaggerated, unlike the covert once over he'd noticed ( through his sedated haze) she gave Anthea as they left the plane.

In the kitchen he helped. Putting on toast and laying the table while Irene stirred scrambled eggs. John, who would have been left to do the whole thing himself, would have laughed and made some remark about the display of domesticity.

They ate in a neutral silence for which he was very grateful. Predictably he felt much better for proper food.

'Did you find anything?' Irenve nodded at the file which he had carried with him to the kitchen like a security blanket.

' Not really, She worked for British intelligence at one point, Moriarty may have known, Mycroft certainly would have.' He thought out loud.

'It would have tickled Jim.' Irene said, smiling.

'We never did clarify the nature of your relationship with him did we?'

'If you're asking what I think the answer is no. Never directly a client, certainly never a lover. He occasionally used me as a lever, one of many.'

'How very professional.' He replied dryly.

'It was very easy money.' She said, a little wistfully. 'Humiliating a peer of the realm till they, well- _disgrace themselves _is nothing.' She said, primly sipping her tea.

Sherlock dissolved into unexpected laughter. 'That I can believe.'

'Anyway, time for a walk.' She said getting up and clearing the plates.

'Walk where? I'm dead, we both are.'

'Yet our legs still function - as long as we're careful to keep our distance from people we should be fine. Besides, you don't look like you, though I noticed a deerstalker in the boot room if you wanted to do something a little risky.'

'Pass. I assume this enforced exercise is my brother's idea.'

'No, mine. I'm not letting you sit inside for days, I'm not sitting inside for days.'

He rolled his eyes. 'If you'll give me peace afterwards.' He went to his room to see if the bags held any outdoor clothes. Returning to the kitchen in hiking boots and an olive green jacket.

'If he wanted to torture me he should have handed me over to the Spanish gang. This is just cruel.'

She laughed. ' I'm sure you'll be flouncing round London in that bloody coat before you know it.'

The wind was fresh, cold and vaguely saline. Ugly as the goretex was he zipped it against the weather. They followed a path behind the house that led into scrubby sand dunes. It threaded in and out, skirting the edge of the beach in places. They tried to stay out of view of the dog walkers throwing sticks and balls on the sand.

Despite what he recognised as a vaguely _Country Life_ background, he was a confirmed city boy. Only a place like London had enough going on to hold his interest but today he could see the appeal of the air at least, it felt clean and new. He started to feel the heavy weight of the last months and years loosen if not yet lift from his head. The realisation that he was almost home, properly home.

The path brought them out at a ruined church and graveyard. They wandered among the crumbling grey stone, pausing to lean against a half ruined wall.

'How long have you known I was alive?' He asked suddenly.

'Months I suppose. I never really bought the suicide. Besides you were the only one who really understood how Jim worked. You said it at his trial, the spiders web. You knew how to take it down elegantly. Some parts collapsing in on themselves while others didn't see it coming. The things that happened to his people, his businesses, could only have been you. So I looked for you, I thought perhaps I could help.'

' You were watching me and you called Mycroft when you realised I had the cocaine.'

'Of course I did. Sherlock Holmes, high as a kite on foreign soil with an MI6 issue weapon no one wants that. I suspect Mycroft owing you a favour is a mixed blessing though.'

'Very much so.' He said grimly. 'Almost as bad as when you owe him.'

'And we all do.' She sighed.

'Quite.'

They were silent a few moments before they started to walk back. Irene told him, unprompted, about after Istanbul. Moving slowly into, then across Europe, crossing borders where her fake passport was least likely to raise flags. Selling all her good jewellery and working in bars to survive.

Back at the house Sherlock took the file apart, literally. Ignoring the grave warnings stamped in red on the cover he tore out photographs and fragments of reports. Annotating them with leaky biro and sticking them to the living room wall with a roll of masking tape he'd found in the kitchen.

Irene left him alone, save for insisting he ate again just after it got dark and went to his bed at midnight. The next day passed with the same routine. Gently enforced meals and a walk that this time took them on to the then deserted sweep of sand. Irene, inexplicably, collecting shells. By the time he could smell dinner cooking in the late afternoon he'd hit a wall with both the file and the newly linked information in his mind palace. He needed fresh data.

He told Irene as much when she handed him a drink and curled onto the sofa. They both sipped at their glasses as they silently regarded his work. Dark rum she had found in a cupboard apparently. Rough stuff for his palate but he appreciated the heat and the slight fuzzing of the edges.

They ate dinner, or at least Irene did. Sherlock went through the motions mostly, pushing vegetables round his plate like an eight year old. He returned to the living room to stare at his wall and she followed.

'I'll show you what I've been doing for a change.' Irene said, slightly hesitant as she disappeared to her room.

He felt a very slight twinge of reflexive gentlemanly guilt because it had not till then occurred to him that Irene was also stuck there with little to occupy her decidedly above average mind. She returned with a laptop.

'Internet?' He said hopefully.

' Sorry no. I've been writing my memoirs - of my _working_ life.' She said starting up the computer.

'Hasn't that been done?' He had a vague memory of Mrs Hudson and John watching something on television about a high end escort. (John pretended to hate it but was always in their landlady' s flat somehow when it was on.)

'Not like this.' She said turning the screen towards him.

He read as Irene fetched glasses and poured more cheap rum. The style was a little florid for his taste and he had to resist the temptation to correct her grammar but he could see how it could be entertaining. He assumed she was trying to be provocative but there was simply far too much _equipment_ involved for him to find it arousing. He knew that the government minister being described was a particular thorn in Mycroft's side.

'It' s diverting.' He said finally, snapping it shut and swallowing a mouthful of rum.

'High praise.' She said sarcastically.

'You're hoping to sell it at some point?'

'Perhaps, anonymously. I'm rather hoping my role so far in this little drama of yours, along with any other help I can offer, might earn me a clean identity. That should be nothing to Mycroft.'

'I don't know how much help I'll need.' He said. He had been considering his next move, after he got back to London, and he was sure someone else (other than John Watson)would only slow him down.

'I think you're forgetting, how much you used to rely on people who think you're dead. Who've grieved for you.'

He was silent. The human element, not his area, the thing he used to rely on John for.

'You've been alone a long time.' She said simply.

'I suppose, I haven't thought about it.' That was a lie but she let it pass. He'd missed his small but perfectly formed support network more than he'd thought possible, every single night as he stared at the ceiling of yet another anonymous hotel room.

She moved closer and picked up his hand. Afterwards he'd wonder if he'd picked up hers first. Either way she started to stroke the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. Before they'd met again he'd last been touched by an Italian nurse, dressing his wounds. That was necessary, clinical. This was indulgent, warm.

'We won't be interrupted this time you know.' She said softly, almost a warning, as she kissed the backs of his fingers. The conflict between relaxing into her touch and pulling away from it began to resolve into a prickling, not entirely comfortable, arousal.

He thought back to his last sexual encounter, he was alarmed at just how hard he had to think to get the details, a dusty neglected room in a dusty neglected corridor of his mind palace. A girl, (name deleted) she'd always flirted with him. They both ran with a set as devoted to substance abuse as any other junkie but with the money to do it in some style, at least most of the time. He felt no attraction to her but allowed himself to be used because he knew she had more coke and he was out of cash for the month, a simple transaction. He felt queasy at the thought.

He kissed Irene then, in part to push the memory away. No delicacy,hands cupping her face, tongue pressing into her mouth . This was what it was, two people wanting to feel something. He wondered if it really mattered in the end what.

As they broke apart he realised he'd surprised her. She smiled, girlish he supposed. Genuine. It only lasted a second.

'Mr Holmes, I was beginning to wonder if you had it in you.' The Woman back to the surface.

' If we're doing this no games.' He said quietly.

'I doubt you can afford the full package at the moment.' She replied smoothly.

'I mean I want-I want it to be you, not the performance, the persona.'

The blunt honesty of this silenced her for a moment. 'Let's go then.' She said finally getting up and walking in the direction of her bedroom. Peeling her clothes off as she went. It took him whole seconds to realise that he was meant to follow. Her directness appealed.

Irene had somehow quickly removed every stitch of her own clothes and was as naked as, well, the day they'd first met. The master suite was similar to his room but with a sumptuous modern four poster bed.

'I know.' She said noticing him looking at the bed as she moved in to unbutton his shirt. 'Terrible cliche. I promise not to tie you to it.'

She pushed the shirt from his shoulders. Running her fingers without comment round the scar at his shoulder. Her other hand dipped lower until she was running her fingers down the line of the coarse hair below his navel. She wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him roughly as she efficiently flicked open the button and zip on his trousers. Her hand sliding into his underwear and giving his length one slow stroke before pulling away to allow him to clumsily strip himself the rest of the way.

She crowded him onto the bed, straddling him. It was,for a second, a little too reminiscent of barely forty eight hours ago when she'd drugged him but he quickly pushed the thought aside as he stretched to renew the kiss. His hands moved over her body in generous circles, noting where elicited an extra catch of her breath.

She hadn't touched him again since they lay down, possibly because she had realised how quickly he'd get close, how long it had been. (It would, he supposed, be the sort of thing she'd have experience of.)The unintentional brush of warm skin against his arousal was more than enough. She pulled his hand between them, pressing his fingers against and inside her for a second.

'Wait there.' She said with a,sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He was confused for a second till he heard the tear of foil.

'I'm clean and I know you are but - we don't want any accidents.' She looked a little embarrassed as she deftly rolled the condom on.

There had never really been any doubt that she would take control, that he would let her. She sank on to his length, looking at him questioningly as she slightly circled her hips, allowing them both to adjust. He slid his hand up towards her waist in reply.

Between the weight pressing him down and her flesh close around his the feeling was exquisite. He'd taken care of himself on occasion, of course he had, preferring the contents of his mind palace at such times to the crass offerings of the internet. This though was so much more and he wondered now why he'd denied himself the comfort of another body for so long.

'You won't last long.' She breathed close to his ear as she stretched forward to almost lie on top of him, skin to skin. Her hips began to move in earnest, grinding against him, taking her pleasure as he helplessly thrust up into her.

' It's ok, neither will I. I've thought about this for a long time.'

They both gave in to instinct, her fingers buried in sweat damp hair while his flexed and pressed into whatever soft skin he could reach. He tried to hold back and wait for her out of the shred of chivalry that his short circulating brain muster. He managed by seconds. She panted and spasmed (no theatrical screams or moans he was pleased to note) just before he was pulled over the edge.

She collapsed on to him, breath damp and cooling against his neck for a few seconds before rolling off. She lay on her back, making no move closer or further away.

He knew other people were affectionate at this point but in his limited experience if the conclusion of the act had been a prompt to do anything it would have been another line of coke. So he waited. After a few seconds she clasped his wrist.

He hadn't meant to sleep but somehow did, for hours. Waking up at two in the morning he gathered his clothes and crept back to his own room. He hadn't time to think as he lay on his own bed before he drifted off again.

'


	4. Chapter 4

**_There is a brief mention of suicidal thoughts in this chapter. If you'd rather not read skip the last section._**

Sherlock stirred at the familiar voice a wave of anxiety pulling him fully awake as he remembered the circumstances.

'Any room for me. You take the one with the view.'

_Mycroft_.

He felt different-_after_. He wasn't sore exactly, _aware_, that was it. He hadn't the time to unpick the sensation or the combination of guilt and embarrassment that floated through his half asleep brain. He was more immediately concerned that the scent of Irene would be clinging to his skin like an illicit cigarette. A fluid motion got him up and into the bathroom, he ignored the voices from below. Irene offering tea, coffee, breakfast, somehow the hostess.

When he emerged his brother was sitting on his unmade bed. Dressed in casual clothes, not unlike what had been left for him. Three piece suits not being appropriate for the closest Mycroft had likely been to field work in years. He looked better, rested. Sherlock knew Anthea would nag him into a zoplicone and an early night if she thought he was just too shattered. Maybe she'd resorted to that.

'Can I go home yet?' He said, pulling the towel from his waist. His brother got up, sighing at his childishness, and went to face the window while he got dressed.

'Tomorrow, we can leave here tomorrow. Are things in place with that tramp fellow?'

'If you mean Wiggins yes. It will take some days to set up.' Sherlock paused.

'There are people I'd like to talk to first.'

'Sherlock this was discussed at the outset...'

'I'm discussing it again now.' He broke in, resolute.'John cannot find out from rolling news.'

'Very well.' Mycroft conceded, perhaps too easily. 'I'll look at his schedule and we can try and arrange something appropriate. 'I warn you though not to expect open arms.'

'I brought you something.' Mycroft nodded towards the bedside table. Sherlock delightedly picked up the violin case, realising at once it wasn't quite right.

'That's your school one, from home. John Watson has the other. It seemed well...' Mycroft broke off and they both backed away from the messy sentiment.

'You've not asked me about Miss Adler.' Mycroft adjusted the cuff of his fleece jacket with a frown of distaste before steadily meeting his eye.

Sherlock didn't flinch. 'I think she's earned fair treatment.' He said taking the instrument from its case and looking it over.

'What has she done to deserve that I wonder. The woman who told us she wasn't playing fair anymore.'

_Rarely bested_. Sherlock didn't answer or correct him.

'Come and explain the living room wall to me.' His brother said finally. 'It looks like a child's collage.'

################

Mycroft Holmes could cook.

Irene would have assumed that something as mundane as sustenance would have been passed off to Anthea or that he perhaps ate solitary, joyless meals at his club, like so many of her former clients. So she was surprised when he asked her to assist him in the kitchen.

He had obviously shopped with some care and was now methodically turning venison, vegetables and what she knew to be rather good red wine into casserole. Bramley apples waiting their turn to become crumble or perhaps pie, he hadn't decided yet. The domesticity of the scene was absurd in the circumstances but she found herself comforted by it all the same as she chopped onions mushrooms and carrots as per his meticulous directions.

Irene and Anthea, by some silent mutual understanding, had left the brothers to their own devices in the living room for the better part of the day. They needed to talk, plot, bicker-hug it out perhaps. Who could really know. Irene had spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon tinkering with her memoirs to little effect after an early walk on the beach. Anthea seemed to spend whole hours standing on a rickety picnic table in the garden, presumably the only place she could get a signal for the BlackBerry. Any noise that came from the closed living room door was open to interpretation. An archly raised voice, a thud, a few discordant notes from the violin.

Casserole underway, she started to peel the apples. She had a vague notion that one long strip of peel was considered lucky in some way but she couldn't remember how. She couldn't manage it in any case. Mycroft poured a generous glass of wine and pushed it towards her.

'Sherlock says you are looking for a clean passport, an identity, is that all?' He didn't look at her as he diced butter and tossed it with flour in a bowl.

She had assumed that he would want to have a conversation out of his brothers earshot, she hadn't expected it to be so civilised.'Yes, you'll never hear from me again.'

He sighed thoughtfully. 'I plan to take you both back to London later tomorrow, it would help if you could tolerate a similar arrangement for a while longer.' She almost smiled at this, as if she had somewhere else to go.

' As you can imagine there is a plan in place, though we do find ourselves on an accelerated timetable.'

'I can do what's needed. Can I ask, will you be watching me or am I watching Sherlock for you? I don't mind, both are to be expected, I just want to be clear.' She looked at him boldly but he continued focussing on his hands working butter into flour in the bowl.

'A little of both I should imagine. I trust Sherlock implicitly- with everything in the end- except his own safety.'

There was a movement in the darkening garden and they both looked out. Sherlock and Anthea were perched on the picnic table, huddled together against the cold, smoking cigarettes like sneaky teenagers.

'They know each other?' Irene said, putting down her knife to sip her wine.

'Oh yes, they were lab partners in university. When it became clear Sherlock's academic career was going to be patchy at best I asked him to come and work for me. He declined, we both know what he did instead. He did ask for a job for Anthea though. I was doubtful, but agreed to interview her. She was-impressive.' Mycroft looked down the garden rather wistfully.

'She's worked for you since?'

'She was a field agent for a number of years. A good one, a knee injury put paid to that unfortunately. She's worked in my office since.'

'..and they were partners?'

'Just lab partners.' He looked at her sharply before turning back to his flour. 'My brother is not an easy man to like but I've noticed over the years he seems to bring out a fierce loyalty in people who should be smart enough to know better. Pie I think.' He said smiling, filling a jug from the the cold tap.

'What are you getting at?' She turned to face him.

'Try not to read too much into anything he says or does at the moment, unless it's to do with the work of course.'

' He is an adult. ' She was getting defensive. It irritated her all the more for the fact that she knew it had been his plan all along.

'All I ask is you consider his... fragility.' Mycroft finished uncertainly before visibly stiffening.

'There will be a full debriefing at some point, not immediately but you will eventually tell us everything you know - and not just about Jim Moriarty. You will hand over any associated documents and photographs. Whatever you have acquired by whatever means. For that I will exchange a clean, safe identity. Agreed?'

She took a few moments to exhale slowly. 'Agreed.'

She went back to peeling the apples.

##########

Mycroft was using his twin coping strategies. Food and formality. Sherlock wondered how close his brother had came to lighting the two silver candlesticks-a centrepiece perhaps.

They sat at the long dining table, absurd with just the four of them crowded at one end. Sherlock had a memory of another over-catered meal a few years ago. He had been on day release from rehab (they didn't call it day release of course, but that's what it amounted to) and Mycroft had insisted on cooking. His parents were so appallingly _nice_. Gushing about the gravy and Yorkshire pudding. Sherlock had wished they would shout, scream. Their disappointment, masked by faux cheerfulness had been more than he could take, newly clean and utterly raw.

The ubiquitous BlackBerry buzzed and Anthea handed it wordlessly to Mycroft.

'Excellent. Things are arranged. An unofficial safe house. Hardly central but near the tube.' He said as if they were planning a weekend away. He handed the phone back with a small smile and Anthea replaced it precisely beside her side plate.

'Other people know about us?' Irene stopped with a forkful halfway to her mouth.

'Not about you as such. If I tell someone in my department I need a safe house, official or otherwise, they tend not to ask questions. It's better all round.' He glared at her a little but she raised her eyebrows and carried on eating unperturbed.

'We got rather lucky with this one being available.' He continued. 'It was originally acquired to debrief occasional KGB defectors who appeared off fishing boats on the north coast. It's survived numerous budget cuts because some of my colleagues enjoy chasing stags across the Heather.' He said scornfully.

'You're happy to eat them though?' Irene gestured at the food and Sherlock smirked, she was enjoying baiting him, couldn't help herself.

'Unlike some of my colleagues Miss Adler I recognise that the dirty work is not for me and leave it to those with a taste and talent for it. There is nothing worse in this line of work than a desk agent blundering into a field operation - as I'm sure you know.'

'No one wants the trouble of tracking a wounded animal when things don't go to plan.' Sherlock supplied, continuing the laboured metaphor.

' Just so.' Mycroft replied, they ate in silence for a few minutes. The brothers pushing their plates away almost simultaneously. Sherlock was surprised at how hungry he had been.

'I looked into John's schedule.'Mycroft began again, voice softer. 'He has a conference in Scarborough at the beginning of next week, geriatrics. If you insist on speaking to him at this stage it is likely the best opportunity.'

'Her?' Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to say Mary's (likely false) name.

'A hen party in Tenerife apparently.' Anthea said.

'Any idea yet what she's actually doing?' Irene asked.

Anthea shrugged, beginning to clear the plates. I'll be watching of course,but as far as we can tell it's genuine. One of the other nurses in the surgery is getting married in six weeks. Mary lives her cover. It's to be admired in a way.'

Anthea moved off to the kitchen with the plates, Irene following with the serving dishes.

Mycroft leaned towards his brother. 'Sherlock he'll hate you for this. You must understand that. I'm sure in time he'll come round but now-he might turn quite nasty. I can't blame him. You absolutely cannot mention anything about Morstan till he gets used to the idea of you being alive.'

'I had realised that.' Sherlock flopped petulantly back in his chair.

'Look, I'll take a few days. Come with you.'

'When have you ever 'taken a few days' You once spent Christmas day on the phone to the German ambassador. No-I'll be fine-it's John.'

##########

Later Sherlock lay on the shaky picnic bench looking up at the stars. Unpolluted by streetlights, the excellent view was only marred by smoke and the glowing tip of his cigarette as it moved in lazy arcs to his violin lay at his side. After so long the strings had stung the tips of his fingers. He imagined it was what people called a 'good pain'.

Irene came out to sit beside him, snagging the cigarette from his hand. 'John told me once you wrote sad music.' She said inhaling deeply and regarding the ember. The suppressed cough telling him she hadn't smoked in a while. 'That new year. Care to play me some?'

He wasn't normally shy of playing but the self indulgent melancholy of the piece John had doubtless been referring to was like reading a teenage diary. He sat up and played a few bars all the same. It was easier than talking.

'I was some sort of first wasn't I?' She said as the notes died away. 'Jim was wrong about you, not a virgin but there was some _occasion_ to last night.'

He fiddled with the instrument, it had been left unplayed too long. Tight and slack in all the wrong places. 'I've never been clean before, always high. I know we'd been drinking a little but - I've never been so present I suppose.'

'Should I be flattered?' She smiled and he felt himself grow awkward under her gaze.

'Don't worry. I have no expectations.' She patted his thigh, the gesture felt oddly platonic in spite of the conversation.

##########

Once they were settled in the anodyne suburban villa his brother agreed he could go out, walk the streets. It was on the understanding that he didn't reveal himself to anyone (even Molly and Wiggins) until Mycroft said so. He started to feel like himself again but a different version. An earlier less polished version that could easily and anonymously move round London, working himself into its gritty surface.

In the years before his 'death'(especially since John and the blog) he had cultivated his persona. The coat, the suits and (against his better judgment) the hat. In the early days though he had been low key, slipping effortlessly, unnoticed, between the boroughs and the social classes. It was how he'd got on in his work abroad against Moriarty's network and it was invigorating to be able to do it on home turf again. Days passed before he got the green light from Mycroft.

_Talk to who you must but prepare yourself for hostility. MH_

That was certainly what he expected at the first name on his list. The front door was stripped of paint when he knocked and the skip on the street suggested more work inside. He wasn't sure what to expect when the door was opened but it wasn't the snort of laughter.

'I suppose you'd better come in.' She said, the familiar tone of challenge in Sally Donovan' s voice. He walked through the short hall past a half tiled bathroom into a newly modernised living room. The hall itself still a patina of nicotine staining on twenty year old wallpaper.

She folded herself onto a sofa, tucking her feet underneath her and picking up a glass of red wine.

'Not a good look for you.' She said sharply, running her eyes over him.'You've not surprised me you know, not really.'

'No, your enquiries were noted. Of course your new duties didn't allow you time to continue, did they Inspector.' Her face slackened under his gaze for a few seconds.

'They told me it was on merit. I bloody knew it.' She took a,gulp of wine.

'Of course it was on merit. You came closer. than anyone to working it all out. You had my brother on the back foot for weeks it was a joy to watch.'

'Why did Anderson get fired then?' She shot back.

'Anderson made himself ridiculous, _more_ ridiculous. That had nothing to do with us that was all New Scotland Yard. Frankly his gang of online idiots did me a favour by making the idea that I'd survived absurd. I particularly enjoyed the one where Moriarty and I were secret lovers. Brightened a dull night in Athens no end reading that.' He paused, settling into the chair and crossing his legs._ Sparring with Donovan, it was like he'd never been away._

_'_ Anderson is no concern of yours now anyway. Lestrade recovered from the divorce is he?'

She looked incredulous.

_Really Sally, after all the times we've done this._

'Shaving foam, unusual brand considerably more expensive than anything else he uses. I'm surprised he still has hair left with that appalling shampoo.'

'You didn't come here to talk about Greg's grooming though.' She set her empty glass down.

'No. You don't like me. I can thoroughly understand why. That's why I need to ask you about John. I know you won't hold back out of misplaced delicacy or concern for my feelings.'

So she offered him wine (which he refused) as she refilled her own glass and she told him. Chronologically, from the day at Barts.

Told him about the first days and weeks when they had taken turns sitting with him to give Mrs Hudson and the newly sober Harry Watson a break. Or more commonly sitting in the living room while John lay staring at his bedroom ceiling for hours, days at a time.

She told him how John had seemed to pick up after the first few months. He'd returned to work but it was a veneer, a brave face, going through the motions. Something happened at the surgery one day, they were never sure what but John had came home in tears, broken. Sherlock's friend, his bravest strongest, truest friend was trapped in limbo. Wandering the rooms of a dead mans home. Unable to move on or to wondered if on some level John had known but he shook the idea away.

Sally paused, shifting, considering her next words. Sherlock looked at her steadily.

'One day at the Yard we got a call from reception. Telling us some mad old woman was at the front door in tears asking for Greg. When we went down it was Mrs Hudson. She had John's gun.' Sally shook her head.

'Still loaded and wrapped in bloody Marks and Spencer carrier bags, she'd brought it in a cab. We couldn't get any details from her but she said he wasn't safe with it.'

Sherlock sprung out of his seat and paced. He'd suspected John had fared worse than Mycroft let him know but not this.

'And then?' He prompted.

'Then after Greg and I had risked our jobs securing an illegal firearm Greg stormed off to see your brother. Wouldn't let me go with him, God knows how he even knew how to find him, but I'd have liked to see him get an earful. Anyway by the end of the day John was whisked off. I don't know if he was actually, you know...'

'Sectioned, admitted? I doubt it, that's not how Mycroft works.'

'After that he was in hospital. Some private place near Bournemouth. Greg visited once, Said there was no sign outside or anything. He thought maybe it was where MI6 types get sent.'

'I believe I know it.',Sherlock said softly. Greenwood Hall was, as Sally said, where people were sent to recover from the psychological problems caused by their service. More string pulling from Mycroft. Sherlock was grateful but livid he'd not been told.

'After that?' He snapped, still pacing.

'He was better but he'd changed. He moved away. We hardly see him now. He's got a girlfriend,serious. Greg's met her but he says he's not sure about her.' Sherlock turned sharply mid-pace.

Sally' s eyes narrowed.'Is that why you're here?'

Before he had a chance to answer there was a rattle of a key in the lock. 'Greg?' Sally shouted.

I've stubbed it out-it's gone.' The other DI' s voice replied and Sherlock had a wave of panic. Sally had never liked him but Lestrade had been almost a brother to him over the years.

'Never mind the bloody cigarette- get in here we've got a visitor.' She shouted back.

When Lestrade turned the corner into the living room it took him a few steps across the wooden floor for him to realise what, who, he was looking at and freeze.

'Those things will kill you.' Sherlock said after a few seconds, the silence excruciating.

'You bastard.' Lestrade bounded across the room. Sherlock readied himself to dodge a punch but instead was enveloped in a bear hug. Sally smirking at his obvious discomfort.

Greg disappeared into the kitchen climbing on a chair to get into a high cupboard insisting this was an occasion for his good scotch. The Lestrade Sherlock had known before would have had the 'good scotch' closer at hand, probably on the coffee table after his wife left. Sally must be good for him.

'Aren't you going to ask me then?' She said quietly. _Interesting_. She hadn't told Greg about her doubts around his suicide.

'I thought it was just me who liked to be the smart arse. Go on then.'

'Barts, when I saw your text to Moriarty. I wondered, why Barts? You know the centre of London better than anyone. If you thought you were going to kill yourself you'd know dozens of places you could do it. It had to be Barts for a reason. That and..' She paused to look at him gently. 'John. You'd never have made John watch, unless it had to be that way.' She finished in almost a whisper as Greg came back in with a dusty bottle of Talisker and three tumblers grinning stupidly. He poured generously, handing the drinks round.

He stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. ' I'm going to ask you know, lots of stuff, but not today.' He shook his head, lifting his glass.'Slainte and all that anyway.'

They clinked glasses and drank. 'Do you need anything?' Lestrade said after a few seconds, recovered slightly but still unable to take his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock sat his glass down carefully. 'Well since you're both here anyway. I may need some help in a few days time, to get arrested.'


End file.
